Darkness, Stars
by polar-realm
Summary: FFVI, Terra/Setzer. She finds him in a tavern, after the war is over.


Terra isn't surprised to find him in a place like this, the kind of respectably shady bar in the waterfront district of Nikeah Port frequented by thieves and gamblers and, on occasion, the kind of knights and Figaro royalty who associate with thieves and gamblers as a matter of course. She isn't surprised, but he isn't where she expected, at the bar or in the center of the crowd dealing cards and rolling dice, greedy for coin and drink and the sound of raucous laughter. He's alone, silent, watching the revelry with a distant look in his half-closed eyes. There's a bottle of amber liquid and a shot glass on the table before him, still nearly full.

He says nothing when she slips into the seat beside him, just raises one silver eyebrow and slides the bottle across to her in silent invitation. She shakes her head in mock consternation, but takes a sip, coughing a little as the smoky whiskey burns her throat on the way down. She isn't used to strong drink, and doesn't know that she ever will be.

"My lady Terra," he says. "What brings you to this fine establishment?"

"I heard an old friend was here," she says. "We've missed you, you know." _I've missed you_, is what she means. Actually saying it is more vulnerability than she'd like to invite.

Setzer shrugs, nonchalant. "I'm gratified to hear it. As for the bar... It's a passable place to lose yourself, if it's losing you're after. And I've found there's time enough for idleness, now that there's nothing to fight against."

"I don't doubt it," she says, glancing out across the room. The low, constant noise of the place has her on edge, ill at ease in a way she can't quite articulate, and she knows there's no true threat here, but she can't help feeling glad that she's sitting with her back to the wall. And Setzer...

It seems foolish to think it, but he doesn't look like himself, in the half-light. She remembers him elegant in black silk and the trappings of luxury, all rakish detachment. Now it's like something that was more than illusion has been stripped from him, and she's seeing only half the story.

He looks - _human_, she thinks. Only human.

Like her.

She has never quite gotten the knack of feeling - or _being_ - human. Whether that is her history or her biology, some trick of chemistry or magic, or whether everyone else simply feels the same, she cannot guess. It isn't something she has spoken of. To do so seems ungrateful, somehow, after everything else has been going so right.

Setzer smiles thinly, spinning a silver one-gil coin on the table, snatching it up again before it can fall.

"I take it you'd prefer to be elsewhere?" he says, that same light, ironic tone she remembers, that same guarded amusement. "You're not the only one."

"Then why stay?" she asks, and, hesitating just briefly, reaches out to take his hands and pull him to his feet. He's lighter than she expects, or she's still stronger, and she lets him go quickly and steps back, trying to regain her equilibrium. He's watching her with dark eyes and an unreadable expression - though she's never been good with human emotions - and then he smiles like lightning and says, "of course. Let's go."

The night outside is almost uncannily quiet after the noise of the tavern, and the cold air hits her in a rush, clearing her head. It's easier to breathe, too, after the crush of people, smoke and sweat and spilled wine, and she feels strangely unbalanced by the change in surroundings, as if she's forgotten how to exist out here, in this consuming quiet. A gaslamp gutters and wavers like a fire spell or a failing barrier, and their breath forms white clouds in the still air. They're alone. Or practically so, anyway, which is always a risk in a port like Nikeah, but they're both still sober and even without magic she is combat-trained, and she didn't leave her knife back on the Falcon with her sword and armor, and she doesn't envy anybody who steps into their way tonight.

But no one does. Just a few streets away, she can hear shouts and drunken laughter, but in her mind, the distance from _there_ to _here _seems far greater than it should be. It's a good feeling, winter in the air and tiled rooftops overhead, catching at the stars. A clean feeling. Terra draws in a deep breath, tastes salt and rain on the wind, and then she's looking up into the vastness of the sky above and she doesn't know whether she wants to laugh or cry or just fall back and stare up into that endless vacuum. It's colder up there, and purer, above the clouds that look so solid and distant from below. She wants to be back.

It was worth it, she tells herself. Worth it. Or necessary, and that comes down to the same thing in the end.

Setzer touches her hand lightly, silk against skin, the cool smoothness of the gloves he wears to cover the scars.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. His voice is rough, damaged by whiskey and imbued with something like reverence, and when she catches him in her peripheral vision she sees him looking in the same direction she is, up and up.

"Leaving," she says. He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does.

"Will you?"

She laughs in reply, half-wild, and the answer, when she finds it, is like some thread inside her unspooling, an anchor cut loose.

When she kisses him, his gloved hands tighten in the fabric of her tunic and he pulls her closer against him, wraps her in the silk of his coat and does not let her go. He tastes like whiskey on her tongue, and she imagines his body pale and scarred beneath her hands, limned by firelight, and does not turn away from the thought. They are the same, she thinks distantly, reaching up to twine a strand of pale hair through her fingers. Or not so different, close enough to the same edge to touch each other and not be hurt. There are stars in his blood, vacuum in his bones, and no place could ever hold him for long.

"No," she whispers into the tangle of his hair. "I won't be leaving. Not yet."


End file.
